


A point of view

by KipDigress



Series: Coming to terms [2]
Category: Ashes to Ashes (UK TV)
Genre: A diary of sorts, Angst, Gen, getting on with life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipDigress/pseuds/KipDigress
Summary: D.C.I. Gene Hunt, from 1983 to 1998. Some of the coppers he helps, and some of the storms he weathers.Explains a number of the characters that make an appearance in 'Coming to Terms' (which is meant to be read first).Rating is mostly for language.
Relationships: Alex Drake/Gene Hunt
Series: Coming to terms [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643671
Kudos: 13





	1. A deep breath

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be read _after_ the (first few chapters of the) first work in this series, even if it deals mostly with the time interval between the first and second chapters thereof. Does this work? - leave me a comment to let me know what you think.
> 
> There are another two chapters to be added to 'Coming to Terms', but this is set in its proper context by what is already posted.

When Alex got home, she carefully removed the three items Gene had given her the previous evening from her jacket pockets. The nameplate and epaulette badge went on the side table that held her few knick-knacks. She placed the notebook on the arm of her sofa, but showered, changed and made herself a cup of tea before she succumbed to the temptation to investigate its contents. Settling herself comfortably, she opened it carefully, hardly surprised to find that the pages filled with Gene's writing.

She started reading, intrigued, taking the occasional sip of cooling tea when something required a bit of thought to digest. It would take several readings and many, no doubt difficult, conversations to grasp the full significance and fill in the gaps, although Gene had been right about her familiarity with many of the characters and events: she could fit names and faces and other cases into Gene's


	2. 1983

10/12/1983

Dear Alex,

Bolly, I'm going to write this down. For you, so one day, maybe, if I'm lucky, you'll have the account of what happened after you left, without my editing, well it will always be edited, but this allows me to forget what I'm not proud of, but not hide everything from you. You'll see what was important, was significant, at the time, not just what I wanted to remember. But it's for me too: a reminder, an effort to not forget, to do better. I won't say much of my time in Manchester; you'll no doubt have heard a lot from Ray and Chris - and anyone else who's around - by the time you read this. I didn't like myself much until 1973; and you would have liked me even less.

I found your tapes when I went to clean out your flat - didn't get very far: threw your cassettes and videos into some boxes. Luigi did me a huge favour by clearing out the fridge when I asked him to lock up your flat after you left. Listened to one too. It's one of your early ones, from 1981. That's partly what prompted me to write this. Books may get cumbersome, though I dare say I will not write often, but they're still easier to carry around that cassette tapes. Besides, one only needs light to read by.

My name is D.C.I. Gene Hunt. I joined the Lancashire Constabulary in 1953 after three years in the army, National Service still going strong at the time. I was shot in the face with a shotgun on Tuesday, 2nd June 1952 - coronation day. It was my first week on the beat, but my mentor, Morrisey, was given a hip-flask of whisky by some celebrating locals and left me on my own.

The farmhouse at Farringfield Green was isolated, hence checking it was on our beat. I went there alone, expecting it to be empty since we'd seen the family in the village. But it wasn't. I thought they were kids, so I barged in - like John Wayne, Jimmy Stuart or Gary Cooper - a lawman in a western. But they weren't kids and I got half my face blown off. They buried me up on the rise behind the farmhouse - a shallow grave. I'll come back to that. Practically no one's been in that farmhouse since that day or very soon after, the place is still decorated for the coronation.

It being my first week - my second day - on the beat, I woke up the next morning to find I'd been reassigned from Bolton to Manchester. Back home. I was confused as hell for a while - who wouldn't be if they could remember their death the day before? A D.C.I. sought me out a week or so later - didn't explain much, but told me that life was strange; death stranger; and that we must be the best we can. Those words didn't make much sense and I soon forgot them. But that single conversation convinced me that I wasn't insane; even made me feel safe. I think I understand why, now.

My mentor this time was Harry Outhwaite. I was a 19 year old flat-foot, full of ideals and as naïve as they come. A few months in, the ideals started to be torn apart. Harry, like so many coppers, not only drank far too much (Bolls, I know, it's one of my vices too, and this is the first day since you left that I've been even half-way sober at the end of the day), but also supplemented his income by taking bribes to look the other way. I shopped him. Was the most unpopular member of the entire force for a while, especially when Harry hung himself - belt, not rope. I think the only thing that saved me was my youth. A month later I took my first backhander.

There's not much to say about the next twenty years. I joined C.I.D. in '58 and rose through the ranks. The D.C.I. who'd reassured me of my sanity retired in '61. I wasn't in his division, but met him a few times over the years and eventually took on his unofficial rôle. Slowly, though, I forgot everything about the first few days of June 1953: I'd always been in Manchester; Harry had been my mentor from the start.

Looking back, I'm not proud of who I became. Yes, the determination to uphold the law - well, put scum away by what ever means necessary - never faltered, but my methods, Bolly. You knew me for something over two years, after Sam had spent seven being a picky pain in the arse insisting on doing things by the book. But you know I was never above beating a suspect or shouting down a witness. Nor was I above planting evidence: framing a scumbag for something still gets him off the streets. But it was the backhanders - looking the other way, covering things up - that made me sick to my stomach. The other D.C.I. never asked me about them - his name was, I think, Jones - and I was too ashamed to bring the issue up.

So there I was, 1973, D.C.I. - sheriff, but a deputy to the law - or so I told myself - when Sam Tyler turns up. God he was annoying. Anyway, you've might have heard this story from Sam by now, but since this is for me as much as for you, Bolly, I'll write it anyway. Feel free to skip forwards. I'm fairly sure there won't be much more that you don't already know for a while.

At the time, the top dog in Manchester's criminal network was a certain Stephen Warren. He had us all in his pocket: tried to buy Sam off too, but he fought back. Led to the death of a prostitute. Sam thought he was helping. He was naïve and then some back then. Anyway, I have to explain how the whole thing works - checks and balances, keeping the peace. Told him what I wrote the other day about old Harry. He asked me how it felt. It's dawn, we're down by the river, sharing a bottle of whisky after seeing the body of the young woman, her throat cut. I tried to not think about the fact that I was a bent copper, but Sam persisted.

Ever wondered what it would feel like to have an animal gnawing on your guts? It's the same feeling as being bent when it goes against your nature. Well, Sam, being Sam, suggested we did something about it. So we did. I doubt you'll approve of forcing a man to strip down to his pants and then shutting him in a giant fridge to get his confession. But that's what we did, and I could argue that you've seen me do worse. We arrested Warren, and Sam and I still made it to the pub in time for a few rounds before throwing out time.

Sam became a good friend, if an annoying one. He generally adapted to 1973. Well, unless you take into account saving me from a murder charge one day and then setting me up for an unauthorised sting gone wrong the next. Got shot in the leg on that particular adventure. Ray never did warm to Sam, even after seven years working together.

Right, then Bolls, what more do you need to know about Manchester? What other questions does your insatiable curiosity require answers to? The basics, I suppose: wife, family. I've told you about work. Ray, Chris, Sam, Annie, Phyllis... I'm assuming that there are many you can ask for more details.

My father was a drunk. He'd go to work hung over, come back an hour or more after he might have, half-pissed, and be blind drunk by nine p.m.. He wasn't nice when drunk. Ma and my brother and I learnt to be very careful around Da. With moderate success. It wasn't anything unusual, just how things were. I grew quickly once I reached twelve, and things became a bit easier. Never knew why he drank. Not sure I'd want to know.

You, with your psychology, may have ideas about why I drink. I won't ask whether your theory has changed or not on reading what I've written so far. It's not just the job, although that's almost enough - more than enough for many. My upbringing was not exceptional and much better than many. What got me about the job was taking backhanders.

Still wasn't enough enough to make my acquaintance with alcohol more than the odd night down the pub.

I made D.C. in '58. Been walking out with a bird for a year or so, steady like. Joined C.I.D. so got married. Was the right thing to do. One of the few vaguely decent things I did around that time.

11/12/1983

Even now, I'm not sure when my brother first started taking drugs. He was an addict by the time I got married in '58. Went missing in '63. Ma was distraught. Da didn't know what to do - other than drink. And blame Ma.

We didn't see him again. I couldn't find him, not even though I'd made D.I. in '62. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried, he was gone. Being a police officer made no difference. If I couldn't help my own flesh and blood, what was the point? Most officers carried one or more hip-flasks. I'd joined them in '55, but didn't really make a habit of resorting to the contents until '63. Sure, I took a sip now and again to keep the cold out, or after something particularly gruesome, but the days when I didn't touch a drop, at least on the job, and frequently after work too, far outnumbered the days when I did. At least until '63. Then it all went downhill - and fast. A hip-flask also does a good job of stopping a bullet: wouldn't have made it to London if I hadn't be doused in single malt a few times.

Being in C.I.D. was a good excuse for drinking. We didn't go to the pub every night then, but we weren't strangers to the place either. Harry Woolf, my D.C.I. was keen on team spirit and dragged us down the pub every chance he got. Said it was good for morale. I thought the world of him. He gave me chances I never would have had otherwise. Despite everything, and what's happened since, the four years I was his D.I. were among the happiest of my life. He made Super, I made D.C.I. and found my brother - dead. Told Ma - that was bad. At least I could handle Da now.

Gods, Bolls. This is damn hard. Spilling my guts. Writing it down. Need a drink.

12/12/1983

Found out in '73 that my mentor, Harry Woolf, was as bent as they come. I knew he was taking backhanders - we all were - but he was rotten all through. I was straight by then - still it bloody hurt. You'll have to ask Sam for that story: how I shot him in the leg, shopped him, and then made sure he didn't die penniless and alone. Guess us all being hungover most days suited him.

Sam helped. Gave me the strength to do better - called me on just about everything. Took some time to sink in, but that's the problem with the truth. Knew by the time I left Manchester what I was - didn't mean I was going to do anything about it. Well, at least not the bits that didn't make me feel dishonest.

_[Copy of the article paying tribute to Sam Tyler that was once pinned on the wall of Gene's office at Fenchurch East.]_

13/12/1983

'73-'80: I was D.C.I., Sam my D.I.. We did good. Then he left; my wife left me; I left Manchester. Planned to head to London on my own, but Chris spotted it. He and Ray refused to be left behind. I didn't have the heart to argue.

London was tough. Bigger city and one I didn't know. Scared me, to be honest, Bolls. I never told them, but I was glad Ray and Chris were with me. They might have been more than a bit slow on the uptake a lot of the time - and Ray never even tried to learn from his mistakes - his or mine - but I was still grateful for their loyalty.

You ever seen me violent drunk, Bolls? That almost was the only difference to my old man when you met me - that, and my preference for drinking in company. Ask Sam about the time I was up on a murder charge. I'd taken ta swing at him; put a brick through a man's window. Couldn't remember a thing.

Chris and I learnt, Bolls. Moved with the times - well, a bit. Hated it most of the time, slowed things down. Eventually worked out that it didn't do much harm - and I needed to adapt if I was going to keep my job - both of them, even if I didn't really know about one of them.

Self-restraint's never been my strong suit, Bolls, but I tried. Sometimes.

Don't need to say much about when you were with me. I let myself soften - a bit. With Raymondo around, I couldn't go too far. I had a reputation to maintain. He was a mate, but that didn't mean he was a friend. Not like you or Sam. We had some serious problems though: I never could trust myself to trust you.

Oh, Bolly. Never thought it would be this hard. Starting over, being on me own again.

15/12/1983

Been listening to your tapes - all of them this time, not just the one from '82 where you wonder how you can bring me down. You thought you were as mad as a hatter when you came. And I'd forgotten why I was there so I couldn't help you - and couldn't understand or accept any of your oddities. Didn't believe you when you tried to tell me. Didn't trust you either. Sorry about that.

You looked good, the first time I saw you. I told you the truth. But not the whole truth. Yeah, sure, you looked good dressed as a pro. But you always looked good. You were - you are - so far out of my league. I knew that without a doubt that first night when you came down to Luigi's in the clothes Shaz had found for you. Bloody hard to ask you out. Bloody hard to look you in the face; bloody hard to work with you. Argumentative and a looker. I didn't stand a chance.

Beauty and brains. couldn't resist arguing with you. There was no chance you would look at me otherwise. Loved working with you, Bolls. Damn hard though, some days, especially if you were wearing red or blue. Dark colours made you less obvious; in white you stood apart. But put you in bright colours and you brought the whole place alive. You were bloody gorgeous, no matter what you wore, but beautiful was the unspeakable description of you wearing blue - even if you had been crying fit to break your heart.

Sorry, didn't mean to go down that path. I won't write much more, I've a nick to run. I dare say I'll regret it when I can't remember the details.

16/12/1983

Oh, sod it. There's no point in listing all the cases we worked on together. I can look them up if I need to. Some were special at the time; some significant only in hindsight. Now I know you were not insane.

You staggered off The Lady Di dressed as a prossie in 1981. Named the three of us, though we'd never seen you before in our lives and fainted. That you'd heard of us from Sam Tyler still doesn't make much sense. Remind me to get the two of you to explain that some day.

I shot you, Bolly. Sorry about that. If I don't forget, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for it.

Never quite sure what prompted me to go on the run. I needed you to clear my name - just as I'd needed Sam all those years earlier. But you couldn't, being in a coma and all.

Could barely look at you after I'd brought you round. You seemed so frail, further away than ever. Quieter too, which I wasn't complaining about too much. Hated seeing you vulnerable, Bolly. Knowing I had no right to do more than demand that you did your job. Scared me shitless. Only got worse when Keats started pulling the place apart. You taking off up to Lancashire was almost the last straw. I spent most of the drive up there trying to decide whether I was going to kill you. I drew on you: so I guess I came close enough.

I miss you, Bolly. Always knew I would. Told you too.

But now I understand. Now I remember that I'm more than just a copper. I've responsibilities to more than the law. My teams are with me to sort themselves out: be it coming to terms with their lives; finding the explanations to some part of their past; or living the life they never got - fulfilling their potential. Most stay for a while; a few years at most; sometimes one joins us for a single case. I learn from them all - not always for the better, mind.

Don't know whether it will be easier now I remember.

18/12/1983

I'm scared, Bolls. Deep down, part of me is still a nineteen year old flat-foot. That shiny sheriff's badge as bright as the epaulette number in my pocket. Two warrant cards and an epaulette number in my pocket, your nameplate next to the bottle of whisky in my filing cabinet. All I've got to remind me.

20/12/1983

We've a bunch of new faces in C.I.D.. Started turning up almost as soon as you'd left. None as pretty as you. They're nothing on the four of you, at least not yet. New D.I.'s like you - from the future, so that'll presumably be some childhood mystery to solve. Part of me wants to resent it: that you're gone, and I'm left behind, with _them_.

It's easier when they're not in a coma, then they don't remember any other life. I guess they'll shape up. They didn't completely cock up today. Doing things properly feels bloody close to having my teeth pulled, but if I want to survive, to see my retirement, I need to change.

New D.I. - Maddock - spent about two hours telling me so today. That's just about the only thing that can be said of a new team. They don't know who I was before and can't think less of me because of it. Taking care, doing things properly, is only soft if shooting first and asking questions later is the accepted protocol.

I have a clean slate, well, apart form the booze and the fags and my temper. Stuff to work on. I'm here for the same reason as any other officer. I'm just responsible for them too.

26/12/1983

Almost the end of a year, Bolly. I should come clean. Why did I start writing this a fortnight after you left?

New team, new faces. Trouble was, I was drinking. Worse than back in Manchester. Not proud of it, but I just wanted to forget. How was I going to get through a day with a bunch of twonks who could barely manage to fill in the simplest of forms without cocking up? If I wasn't drunk by knocking off time, regardless of what had happened during the day, it was unusual. Crashed a pool car chasing a blagger. Put Cotsey and a passerby in hospital. The blagger got away.

I can't go cold turkey - that would look strange. I'm a bloody D.C.I. for God's sake. I once told you that I'd shot all the innocent people I wanted to shoot in my life - you: now I'll say that I've put more than enough innocent people in hospital for two lifetimes. Still going to drive like a lunatic, mind, but you were right to shout at me when I was driving after I'd been drinking. Wish I'd listened to you.

You're a psychologist, writing to you is as good as seeing a shrink, right?


	3. 1984

01/01/1984

Damn this paperwork. The rest of London saw the fireworks and I was stuck in my office till gone three, making sure the Munroe case was all in order.

Do you know how much a typical hip-flask holds? About a quarter pint, maybe a bit less. Didn't even get through one yesterday. And that wasn't because I was swigging from the bottle either.

They're doing OK. I'm doing OK. Policing the modern way. Things were far more straightforward before we had to document every damn thing and a confession was enough to make a conviction stick. But it feels better to be straight, always did. Sam taught me that. And I can't say I entirely mind not spending my days shouting at everyone in sight.

God that was tiring. Drinking wine with you at Luigi's was always peaceful - well, nearly always. I could sit there and let you ramble on while I snuck a look down your top. Best I was going to do, Bolly. Don't hold it against me.

10/02/1984

The funny hand-shake club has been hanging around again. I _think_ we got rid of the worst of the corruption running through the force with the King Douglas Lane job. Sorry about that, again.

I can't be certain though, seeing as I wasn't there for the immediate aftermath. I'll have to tread carefully, Bolly. And hope no one finds this.

12/02/1984

I want to kick the whole lot of them into the next century. You know who I mean.

Swapped your desk with mine. That way it's never someone else's. And the reminder's in front of me as well as in my pocket.

13/02/1984

I have to assume my office is bugged. Have to assume they're snooping behind my back. There goes a hip-flask, replaced by this. I hope it does as good a job if a bullet comes my way.

07/06/1984

More bent coppers. Not to the extent of Fenchurch West and Supermac, but bad enough. Scary enough. And I didn't have you standing by my side. A good beating does clear the head though.

22nd September 1984

Got socked in the jaw by the new D.S. - it seems I need to stop shouting so much. None of the new lot is anywhere near as mouthy as you, but they've got more attitude than any other officers I've ever worked with. Unappreciative prats.

Oh, and he might have Ray's build and your height, but he has nothing on your left hook.

06/11/1984

Bloody Paddies. Spent the last week running around London backing up the bomb squad. They get all the glory and C.I.D. gets all the paperwork. It'll take us a month to sort it all out. Enough to drive a man to drink.

Only had to refill one hip-flask the entire week. No time to go down the pub. Fell asleep at my desk before I could summon up the energy to dig the bottle out the filing cabinet.

We must have walked miles. Feels as though I've lost a stone. Can't say I feel worse for it, but shh.


	4. 1985

03/02/1985

Sorry Bolls. So much left out. Fear I'm forgetting. Don't want to forget you. I'm a sentimental old fool.

Damn paperwork. Bloody exhausting.

4th Feb. 1985

W.D.C.s may be a pain in the arse most days - and a bloody distraction to book, but they see things the lads don't. Got to hand it to them: they're a smart bunch and hard working. Tough too. It doesn't hurt to have something nice to look at when the world's going to shit either. Pity the lads are so easily distracted: most of them can't appreciate the view without losing sight of the job. Too much of a novelty.

I haven't much patience with them - the lads getting distracted all the time. Then I remember how hard it was to work with you around.

Made two breakthroughs today - one kidnapping and one double murder. The kidnapping is sorted, well, apart from filling in some of the finder details. We'll get there. Have a new D.I. - oh, I forgot to say I took Maddock to The Railway Arms a few weeks ago. Said farewell to Terry last year. Reckon Poirot and Bammo won't be long now. The two new W.D.C.s have made it pretty crowded this last month or so. Anyway, I'll put the new D.I. on sorting out the kidnapping. The murder's going to take a bit longer, but we're getting there.

7th Feb. 1985

Oh, bollocks. Worst case for a while. Dead eight year old girl. Long blonde plait, just like little Alex Price. This is the worst kind of case: every copper's worst nightmare - mine at least

Cleared up the double murder though. I managed to get through the interview yesterday without giving the suspect more bruises than he picked up when we arrested him. And he didn't collect many then either. Poirot tripped him as he ran down an alleyway. I grabbed his wrists and that was it.

I know you know what I've done to get information. Knackers out while I practice snooker. Sorry about that. Too late, much too late, I know. Still, you didn't deserve to see that - not exactly an attractive set of blokes. Nor am I. Damn it.

22nd Feb. 1985

You're in my head, Bolls. Sam too, sometimes; all of you who come from the future, who know how things are going to look. But mostly it's you. I always reckoned I had a conscience, but I'm starting to believe it's you.

Daren't talk about you when the others are around. They'd think I'm off my rocker. I'm not, though, am I Bolls?

I remember something Ray said, just before he went with Keats. About why he hanged himself: a D.C.I. covering up the death of an innocent. Not a million miles from me. An accomplice used the phrase 'not a million miles'. It's been running round my head ever since. I need to do better. These young coppers need me to do better. I owe Ray that much.

10th Apr. 1985

Bammo and Poirot are gone now. Don't know if you saw them when they stepped through the door.

Evidence. Staying straight. Thinking things through.

I believe everyone deserves justice. Don't let me forget that they all deserve respect too. It's funny. I always used to differentiate between victims, witnesses and suspects - scum and not scum - or relations to.

I'm trying to tone it down. I can't say I'm successful much of the time. Hitting the table is nowhere near as satisfying as hitting scum, but seems to have a similar effect. Shouting less is harder work. I'm trying.

13th Apr. 1985

What a mess. Three blags at almost the same time yesterday. Christ, what a mess. And just when we've a new D.S.. Poirot and Bammo just missed it. Maybe you've seen them. I can't say how much help they would be, but they were dependable. That's all of you now. No one else that you knew is left.

27th June 1985

Sorry. Been busy. Nothing out of the ordinary.

25th Dec. 1985

Sorry. Crap. I hate Christmas. It's bloody freezing but no snow.

Ain't going to lie, Bolls. Looked back over what I've written and downed an entire hip-flask in one go. Over two years and I still miss you. It's so much worse than I thought it would be. Drinking less is a work in progress. Team got sloshed yesterday lunchtime. Ma died in August so no reason to go back to Manchester.

Days off are not necessarily good things. I'm going for a walk.


	5. 1986

02.01.1986

What a way to start a year. Four prossies washed up dead by Tower Bridge: tightly curled brown hair. Thank God none of them were wearing red.

05.01.1986

The pathologist reckons they died about 4 a.m. on New Year's Day. Of all the nights to commit murder in London, I can see why that one might be chosen.

Pretty sure they're connected. The bodies were tied together.

New W.D.C. is a bit shaken. So's the new D.C.. Welcome to the team, indeed.

13.04.1986

I've been back up to Farringfield Green. Just got back. Went to your flat too. It's a bit dusty now. One day I'll summon up the courage to clear it out properly. Just not today.

Still haven't solved the New Year's prostitutes case. One was just seventeen. She'd run away from home. Getting IDs took forever - well it felt like forever.

Did sort out what was going on with the blue BMWs. Very odd case. Arguably Crime Squad's remit, not C.I.D., but the second robbery left a new father fighting for his life and the fourth a little girl in an orphanage so I thought we should take a crack at it. Rich druggie with an obsession. He'd taken against the particular shade of blue of the latest BMW model. He's a nut case, and his psyc. profile will put him in a secure hospital. More's the pity.

Bloody hate it when it's the loonies.

Monomaniac. That's what they said he was. Single-minded.

25.06.1986

Why me? Latest D.I. is absolutely barmy. He's looking set to give you a run for your money in those stakes and that's now I understand why you said many of the things you said.

Haven't had a permanent D.I. for over a year. They're easier on secondment: I think it's because they're already dead and don't know owt else. Seems they come to sort out a specific question - work a case or two and then it's off to the pub. May make life easier, but it's lonely being a D.C.I. without a D.I. to rely on. Time to grit my teeth and get on with it.

09.09.1986

Matthew, my D.I., is shaping up well. Him and Sally, who, you'll be please to hear, I've just promoted to D.S., figured out the prossie murders from the start of the year. Didn't catch the bastards. Matthew reckons we may never be able to nail them. Not enough evidence.

Tempting though it is, I'm not going to fit them up, even if it could save lives.

10.09.1986

Got proper hammered for the first time in ages last night. I don't remember hangovers being this bad. Hair of the dog helps a bit. Sugary tea's more my thing these days.

Not much to celebrate to be honest, but we had solved the mystery that had been bugging us for eight months, even if we couldn't get an arrest.

It's a weight off my conscience, even though I'll worry for a long time that it'll happen again. Serial killer - yes or no? I've no gut instinct about this one, Bolly. You'd be getting your knickers in a twist trying to figure it out. Me, I'll just wait.

25.12.1986

Year's nearly over. Miss you, Bolly. Got strange looks from the team when I toasted 'Absent Friends' yesterday. Thought it before, so many times. This time I came out and said it. The way toasts work now, I give the first and the last. Couldn't think of anything to say. The team were expecting something witty and all I could think of was a bloody poncy navy officer's toast.

Meant it though. More and more. The list gets longer.

What am I doing, Bolls?

Overweight, over the hill, nicotine-stained, alcoholic. I'll take the borderline bit out of Sam's description.

I could retire in another two years if I wanted to. But what would I do? Who would I be without a gun and a badge?

Nah. Won't happen. I can't retire until there's someone to take over doing what no one knows I do.

Can't believe it's only been three years since you left, Bolls. We've been so busy, the time should have gone faster. I feel like I'm nearly sixty, not in my early fifties.

Oh, quit sniffling, Dorothy. Have a drink and grow a pair. (That's to me, by the way.)


	6. 1987

12th May 1987

Bloody hell, where's the year going? Scrap what I said at Christmas, Bolly. This year's going to shit faster than last year. Drugs, murders, robberies, assaults - you name it.

Been laid up in hospital. I got careless with a collar last week and took a knife in the shoulder. Docs tell me it will be OK, but I've got to be more careful - let others go in; stay on the sidelines.

Not my style, Bolly. You know that.

But then evidence and surveillance and psychology weren't my style either, so who knows? I need to keep in one piece until my replacement turns up - and preferably for a few years after.

Ouch. Shoulder's killing me. Doc says I need to rest and shouldn't mix alcohol and painkillers. And that between the shoulder needing to heal and the painkillers affecting my vision, I shouldn't drive.

13th May 1987

I've been a good boy - for once. Took the painkillers, washed down with juice, not whisky.

Hate being out of action, who knows what sort of cock ups they'll make.

I know, you'll say I need to trust my team, let them grow. Reminds me of what I told you once upon a time. 

15th May 1987

Went back to work today. Wish I hadn't. Good thing I did. D. \& C.'s trying to pin my injury on my team: negligence on my part; ignoring the rule book by all of us.

8th July 1987

For once I'm glad for paperwork done properly. If we hadn't spent the last eighteen months being driven mad by dotting i's and crossing t's, we'd really been in the brown stuff. Could still all go tits up though.

6th August 1987

Never thought I'd think this, but thank God for a team that actually does their paperwork properly.

Took a D.S. and two D.C.s to The Railway Arms earlier. Not Sally though. She and Matthew have hooked up - they'll go together. Like Chris and Shaz.

Team's going to feel small tomorrow. Not sure I'm looking forward to more new faces.

7th August 1987

I was right about the team feeling small. Good thing London's criminals are keeping quiet.

Matthew and Sally miss them more than I do. They make me smile though, referring to us as 'the three musketeers'. Maybe, not really, but there we are. I told them last night that we needed to stick together. They were being maudlin.

29th October 1987

The three musketeers indeed. One way to catch a fantasist is surely to greet them with what could be another. Really weird way to solve a case. Sally's idea. She could be giving you a run for your money for batty ideas.

26th November 1987

Why me?

Four years. I hope you're happy. I've still that photo of Farringfield - even if it was from Keats. But it wasn't, was it? It was one of Sam's photos, wasn't it? I found the rest in your desk. I guess Keats has the negatives. Sneaky bastard.

_[Envelope with all the photos in it.]_

How close did he come to seducing you too? He played on your doubts and your suspicions about this world, didn't he? You were never quite convinced, but I didn't trust you when I should have. Looks can be deceiving, Bolly, you know that, I know.

I shouted at you, insulted you, with almost every other thing I said to you. I pushed you away; gave you no reason to trust me and it was no wonder you turned to Keats. I've no one but myself to blame. Not that I'm ever going to work out what made you stick with me when the others went with Keats. Even if you did know the truth by then.

Never did say how glad I was for you sticking with me. Thank you for that: meant more than I can possibly say.


	7. 1988

14th February 1988

Still here, Bolls. Still remembering. Said farewell to Matthew and Sally today. It seemed fitting.

I'm not big on the whole romance thing, you know that. But then you're the only woman I've ever fancied where I needed to even think about it. Not that I ever actually stood a chance. Trouble was, I could also have a sensible conversation with you and enjoy the whole evening - apart from the asking you bit. Perhaps it's because we worked together and spent so much time together in Luigi's, but you were easy to talk to, not to mention easy on the eyes.

A proper distraction in C.I.D.. It's probably a good thing you're not here any longer, I'd never get my paperwork done.

You'd hate my guts; we'd have a row; you'd pick up the extra work; I'd feel like a prize prick.

Lose-lose all round. Well, apart from the row. Actually, I'm not entirely sure about the row. I told you, I can't have you putting me off my stride; you made me doubt myself more than anyone I ever knew.

That last was a lie. Always was, I hope you already knew that. It's what I tell myself to cover the fact that I wish you could have stayed. It's the way of the world: we can't have what we want, not if we're to keep as many people safe as possible. I couldn't let you put yourself in danger when you could be in safety, not once I knew the truth.

17th February 1988

New D.I.'s a blonde haired wee slip of a thing. Quiet; quieter than Shaz ever was. How she ever made D.I. is beyond me.

19th February 1988

Ouch. Now I understand how D.I. Running Shoes made D.I. before she reached 30. Sharper than a razor and so fast that I'd bet good money on her in a sprint against anyone else at Fenchurch East, flat-foots included. She may barely come up to my shoulder, and make you look plump - post-coma, but heck, having her take a flying leap into your back doesn't half knock the breath out of you.

I appreciated the life-saving, not so much making the acquaintance of the pavement. We have to take the hand we're dealt.

Bit of a crap hand, though. She's teetotal so I'll be drinking on my own for a while.

3rd May 1988

Hanging out with someone who doesn't drink isn't as nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Means the fags are more likely to kill me. And having a clear head every morning does have certain benefits.

She's decent company. Not nearly as argumentative as you, but, as I said, sharp, and with a caustic sense of humour.

31st July 1988

But as I've said, a good beating also clears the head.

You never gave up. Not on your daughter, not on Ray, or Chris, or Shaz. Not on me. All I want to do some days is give up. Then I remember C.I.D. in a shambles, and you getting up, looking over their work, wittering on about it, getting it all wrong. And because it was you, or because it was me, I couldn't not correct you. You didn't give up on me, and I can't give up on my team.

31st October 1988

Halloween nowadays is disturbing. All those ghastly costumes, all that fake blood, and they're as drunk as lords to boot. Stomach turning.

31st December 1988

I don't belong here, Bolly.

Going up to Bolton.


	8. 1989

1st January 1989

I'm sitting in the car at Farringfield Green. The sun's just rising. It's peaceful here. Always has been. Thirty five and a half years ago; five and a bit years ago; today.

The scarecrow's still here. It might even be wearing the same coat.

It's painful, remembering. But I _think_ it helps.

Makes dealing with batty D.I.s and clueless D.C.s and D.S.s easier. Actually, it's only the men who are clueless, the birds are nearly all as bright as buttons. Hate to say it Bolls, but even I can see that the police force is better for having birds in C.I.D..

Took me fifteen years to admit that. I owe Annie an apology and Ray deserves a good beating.

6620\. And look where I am now: sitting in a car miles from anywhere. On my tod on New Year's Day. Just as I always am.

Miss you, Bolls, I always do.

Oh, I drive a Merc now, Bolls. Blue, royal blue. I wanted a change. It's a bit less conspicuous than the Quattro. Handles well, but doesn't have the Quattro's power. Over five years since I got it, so going to need a new motor soon. Once that would have been one of the first things to write. My priorities really are screwed up.

20th March 1989

Oh, fuck it.

22nd March 1989

Sorry. All going to shit. And no Bollykecks to provide a distraction.

28th March 1989

Or a good argument.

13th May 1989

'Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.'

Who wrote that?

W. B. Yeats, right? I do listen to you.

I fucking hate it when people try to destroy the only thing I've ever loved.

30th June 1989

I've been writing this for over five years. I told you it would be intermittent. I'm getting used to the paperwork. Your absence too. It's not too bad, being a bit cautious, I appreciate that now. Well, I appreciate not getting injured in the line of duty. I don't bounce as well as I did.

Computers are a right pain, and even those whose entire lives used to revolve around them aren't much help.

Sorry. I'm struggling to bring myself to care. There's been a lot of change recently, too much for an old sod like me. I miss my friends. You and Sam in particular. Chris too - he was a daft bugger. Annie, Phyllis, Ray, Viv, Shaz. Failing to save Skip is one of my biggest regrets, one of my stupidest mistakes. I'm terrified I'll make the same mistake again. Or mess up with an equivalent result.

I haven't been to your flat since '86. The other day, the landlord asked me if I was ever going to use it. I'm still paying the rent on the place. I'm a right poof. But I just can't let you go. I guess it's a good thing I know I won't need my pension. I went over, threw a few more things into boxes and was relieved when my radio went off and I was needed at the station.

It's been a rough few weeks, Bolls. I wasn't going to mention it, but I'd think I'd rather not have to tell you about it in person. And I had promised you honesty. I've asked that this stays within C.I.D. - C.I.D. as it currently stands, so I will be having strong words if this isn't the first you hear of this. I think I've shouted at them just enough to be obeyed without question, at least in this matter.

I haven't lost my temper for a long time, not properly. There's a new D.I. - something of a cross between Tyler, Litton and Lord Scarman. I'm not sure what you know of Litton, he was a self-righteous, sanctimonious, glory-seeking prick. Good for a fist fight though. Anyway, this new D.I.'s a smarmy bastard. He was once a D.C.I., which often makes it worse, but this one really doesn't shut up about it. Today he got a twelve year old lad killed by not listening to me and preventing D.I. Running Shoes - Carol - from doing her job and talking to the hostage taker.

I could have killed him - the D.I., not the lad - I damn near did. He's now in hospital with a broken jaw, some busted ribs and a possible concussion. I've no defence, Bolly. But the Met protects its own and is still corrupt enough to hush it up. I know I shouldn't be pleased about that, but I can't deny that it's worked in my favour before, and I'm trusting that it will do so again. I'm not looking forward to finding out where his issues stem from, and I have a horrible feeling there will be more than one critical point... You and Sam were pretty straightforward all told.

He's a proper posh ponce. Posher than you, by a long way. Eton and Cambridge. He keeps banging on about how Lord Beeston or some such will hear of this - at least that's what Carol reported from when she visited him in hospital. She won't be going back to see him though. Not after he groped her - and didn't have the courtesy to give him the option to punch him. Getting that out of Carol was hard, she was embarrassed, and angry. Rightfully so in both cases.

I know I'm not exactly a gentleman, Bolls. Far from it. But I never pretended otherwise.

What he did to Carol makes me want to give him another, even more thorough, beating. Probably best that I don't though.

Oh, it's all written down - well, apart from me losing my temper, and even that's in there, toned down, but not covered up. You'll want to know the timeline.

D.I. Posh Pants turned up on the 17th, and first made a pass at Carol on the 20th. And again on the 23rd. The lad was taken on the 25th and killed on the 26th. Carol didn't hit him yesterday, though she really should have. He's from 2012, so his behaviour surprises me, given that he's about 40 - similar to you if you hadn't crossed paths with Layton. If you hadn't, I wouldn't have met you though, and I'm glad I did.

I'm not proud of how I reacted to the lad's death, and, quite frankly, don't know how to deal with it, with any of it. I never react well when my team challenge my authority so much; I don't suppose anyone does. It's always worse with the D.I.s, my senior officers with whom I should be standing shoulder to shoulder without doubt. That's how you and I got into such such a mess. Several times. I guess obeying orders is something that got beaten into me in the army. If there's one thing to be said for National Service, it's that it teaches you to obey orders without question - or at least without argument.

You'd know what to do; you always knew. You and your psychology.

I'm going to have D. & C. on my case again. The two years since I last saw them is nowhere near long enough.

14th July 1989

It's about respect, Bolly. Goes both ways, of course, but as senior officer, it's something that I expect. You have to earn mine. I think you earned mine the very first time you argued with me. I always respected you, no matter what happened. Well, at least I respected your left hook.

5th November 1989

Remember, remember the fifth of November,  
Gunpowder, treason and plot.

We weathered it. Mostly thanks to Carol and the rest of C.I.D.. D.I. Posh Pants - Quintus Barrington, what a name - excepted. I sort of hope you never meet him, but if you do, mind you make him acquainted with your left hook on my behalf. And please, don't hesitate to knee him in the knackers while you're at it.

Posh Pants is still on the team - just. We went through all the proper procedures and he's been demoted to D.C.. He tried to argue against it, but even trying to take me down with him for assault didn't work. The superintendent isn't quite squeaky-clean, knows I know, and word seems to have got out so I think he's not keen on risking Harry Woolf's fate. I shopped my mentor; I would have shopped Mac; I took down Carnegie; I'll shop anyone else if I have good enough reason.

9th November 1989

Even though he's been demoted, Posh Pants is still trying it on with Carol. It if were you, I'd have given him another beating already. If you hadn't beaten me to it, that is. Carol's too nice, won't sink to violence unless it's to save lives.

Part of me wants to transfer him out so fast he won't know what's happening, but that would probably send him straight to Keats and that's unacceptable, no matter how well deserved. Actually it's not Jimbo this time, a short, dumpy lad called Tommy represents D. & C., but you know what I mean.

15th November 1989

Turns out Barrington's issues with women stem from the experiences of a sixteen year old who ran away from Eton for a week and couldn't get it up for a prossie. Who he later found murdered.

I hate to say it, Bolls, but I hope I get rid of him soon. He doesn't deserve it, but I'd rather it was to The Railway Arms.

I'll try to warn you somehow. If you're still there to listen to an ageing alcoholic. Give him my regards and introduce him to your left hook if he is even the slightest bit discourteous to you.


	9. 1990

18th Jan. 1990

Another year. The team's growing again. Mostly men. They've sort of formed a protective circle round Carol and the new W.D.C.. It's funny to see them keeping Barrington away from them, but I do have to mind out that it doesn't turn into open bullying - that's my rôle. It would probably help if I wasn't itching to beat seven kinds of shit out of him.

3rd April 1990

Told you before, Bolly. Watching me work's not for the faint hearted.

5th April 1990

That said, you'd probably be able to stomach most of my methods now.

20th August 1990

Life continues. Scrap what I wrote back in April. Running Shoes almost got a fist in the face when she stepped between me and a suspect.

My only excuse is that they're redoing all the wiring in C.I.D. again so the place is a veritable builder's site.

18th November 1990

I'll tell you one thing, Bolly. Rain in Manchester never felt as miserable as it does in London. Perhaps it was because we didn't complain about it so much?

25th December 1990

Happy Christmas, Bollykecks. It's been a hell of a year and shows no signs of stopping.


	10. 1991

1st January 1991

Still here. The team is as it was. Barrington made a couple of good shouts with a murder case we closed just before Christmas. I let him know it. Not that I'm ever effusive when it comes to praise. He's got a hell of a lot of issues to work through; he might even outlast me. Just so long as he doesn't make D.C.I. when I leave.

8th February 1991

Bloody hellfire. You never said the IRA was going to try and blow up number 10. Bloody Paddies. Bloody politicians. And guess who pays the price? A couple of bobbies. Part of me wanted to drink myself into a stupor; part keep a vigil for lost souls. Lack of sleep won, even if I'll soon need to get another bottle of my favourite single malt. Shows how far I've come.

17th February 1991

Carol's been with me for three years now. D.I. Running Shoes. She saved my bacon again the other day. Pity she doesn't drink; makes it harder to say thank you.

29th April 1991

I always said women were completely baffling: here's a case in point. Why would a mother smother her two children? There's nothing to explain it: no history of mental illness, no indications in her psych report either. There's nothing unusual in her home life, nor her husband's. They had no especial financial or social pressures. Her last family bereavement was when an aunt died four years ago. We've found nothing to indicate any childhood trauma. Her friends and neighbours all corroborate what her children's teachers say: she was a loving mother and doted on her children. Yet one afternoon she smothers them both. The husband was away overnight for work, but that's a regular trip up to Leeds, happens every month. Two young lives gone, just like that.

10th July 1991

Ten years ago today, Bolly, you appeared dressed as a prostitute. Gave us all a shock when we found out you were our new D.I., I can tell you. I hope Chris and Ray apologised for how they treated you - and what they said - before your identity was established. Fortunately I had somewhat more decorum. I am _not_ , however, going to apologise for carrying you into C.I.D. - or anything else, for that matter. As far as I'm concerned, you were asking for what you got.

23rd September 1991

Carol's leaving do tomorrow. I'll take her to The Railway Arms afterwards. I'm going to miss her. I'll ask her to try to find you, warn you about Barrington. I don't know how to explain it though, so I might have to make it a general request. I don't want to share you with anyone, not here. He's settling down, but I still wouldn't trust him within ten feet of you.

I worry about you, Bolly. I hope you've good company and aren't bored. It's a good thing I've scummy bastards to catch. Prevents me from becoming too maudlin.


	11. 1992

8th May 1992

What the fuck just happened?

One minute it's autumn 1991, the next it's almost half way through 1992.

9th May 1992

Just looked through the cases since last September. Fuck, we were busy. No wonder I didn't write for months.

_[Several sheets of paper, a list of dates and names summarising cases. The senior officer in all cases being D.C.I. Gene Hunt.]_

The desk sergeant is always a good person to have on your side. Especially with computers. It took her about two minutes to get me that list of cases. And she didn't ask me why. I could have done it myself, just, but it would have taken at least ten times as long, and done nothing for my temper.

I'm going to have to clear your flat out soon, Bolls. I'm kind of dreading it if I'm honest. I listen to your tapes now and again. It almost breaks my heart, hearing your voice again. And then there's your desperation to get back to your daughter. I hope no one other than you reads that. I'm not even sure I want you to read that. But it's written now.

30th August 1992

It's been quiet this last week. Not that it will last. I'll see about booking a few days off and clearing out your flat. The landlord's been at me again.

06.09.1992

I'm taking a few days off. Going to try and clear out your flat. Best if I keep as little as possible.

07.09.1992

It's hard, sorting through your stuff. Some bits are easy: bathroom - sweep everything but the towels into the bin. Most of the tins in the kitchen are a fair few years out of date too. The wine, well you can guess where that's going. Same with the whisky.

Nine years' worth of dust - there's not a surface that can be sat on.

It's getting there. The landlord says he'll keep the furniture and the kitchen stuff and get cleaners in too. That makes life easier. I've just got your clothes and the lounge to deal with.

08.09.1992

Your white leather jacket and the first time I saw you with a gun. Gave me the horn - still does. I'm surprised you still have it. Did Shaz get it washed for you while you were in your coma? You never wore it again.

Viv's birthday party - your gold dress. Skimpy enough.

Blue and red. I never could decide which you looked best in.

Your white dress. That evening - or parts of it - was the stuff of dreams. I guess the other parts convince me it was reality. I'm not that lucky, not with you.

There's no point in keeping them. I've packed them up and will drop the boxes off at a charity shop.

So many memories, Bolly. Feels like I'm drowning. It's a good thing you had the wine. Here's to you.

09.09.1992

I burnt most of your papers in a barrel behind the station today. Your music cassettes and VHSs have gone to a charity shop. I've all your recordings at mine still.

Most of your books went with the tapes. The ones relevant to work will end up in the C.I.D. kitchen. I might read a few pages myself now and again.

I'd better check in on C.I.D. tomorrow, see how things are. I could do with a bit of company too, to be honest. I don't mind it just being you and me, Bolly, but you can't currently make me a cuppa. 

And I can't return the favour without being left with a mug of cold tea.

10.09.1992

And all hell breaks loose the minute I step through the station doors.

Did scum wait until I was heading back to cause trouble or is it simply that the bunch of idiots I've the dubious pleasure of calling my team really are completely clueless? Even Ray made less of a mess of running C.I.D. and I've only been away for three days. They knew I was still in town too, but they never thought to call. Being over the road from the station, I had a radio on me, only the desk sergeant knew though. Still, I wasn't exactly unreachable.

11.09.1992

I can't say as I'll be sorry to not be paying the rent on your flat. I thought I might use it if I was late at the station or had too much to drink. I never did. Then I didn't have the courage to clear it out.

The Gene Genie doesn't cry. Certainly not over a bird. Especially not over a bird he hasn't heard from in almost nine years. 

Bollocks to that. I bollocksed things up with you. So many times.

11.11.1992

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

To absent friends.

Fallen comrades.

They shall not grow old, as we who are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.  
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,  
We will remember them.

There's no memorial for any of you, not in this world. I will remember you, all of you. But you most of all, Bolls: the posh mouthy tart with a head full of brains and the common sense of a grain weevil. What _was_ I thinking? I hope you weren't offended by that.

Wednesday's no day for getting wasted.

Oh, sod it.

18th December 1992

I haven't been up to Farringfield Green since New Year's Day 1989. Having half my face blown off by a shotgun on Coronation Day is starting to feel like a bad dream. My head knows what happened and I could almost recite what I wrote back in '83, but my heart keeps trying to tell me it's not true. I remember best at the farmhouse.

I promoted a D.S. when Carol left. It's been a while since I've had someone with me long enough to be promoted all the way from constable to inspector. Ray was the last. This one will be off soon too, I expect.

I'm getting too old for this, but there's no one like how I was in '53: killed before the polish had fairly dried on their boots, not out of time, dead and aware of it, but not panicking.

20th December 1992

Most are vaguely aware that something's not quite right when they first turn up, but the memories are fuzzy, like something in a dream. Unless they're in a coma like you or Sam - or most of the D.I.s, for that matter. For a long time, I just ignored the whole thing and eventually forgot. Remembering was painful. I told you the truth when I said I wished I hadn't remembered. What I didn't tell you was how glad I was that you were there with me.

Knowing the truth means I have an obligation to proactively help. It's earned me a few fists in the face, but does make it easier to keep Keats and his ilk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'They shall not grow old [...]  
> [...] we shall remember them.'  
> This is the fourth stanza of 'For the Fallen' by Laurence Binyon. It forms part of the Remembrance Sunday service that is held on the Sunday closest to the 11th November (the armistice at the end of the First World War), but seriously, read the entire poem.
> 
> For anyone who thinks that there is _any_ glory or point in war, I strongly suggest reading some of the poems written during the First World War. Two other very well known ones are: 'In Flanders Fields' by John McCrae, 'Dulce Et Decorum Est' by Wilfred Owen (take note of the last two lines). But many other poets wrote about the war (and the Second World War too), whether from home or on the front: they were generally not that complementary.
> 
> White poppies in November make more sense than red.
> 
> Note: Gene would have grown been about ten in the Second World War: more than old enough to have terrifying memories of air raids and to have seen first hand the physical injuries sustained by soldiers in both the First and Second World Wars. And that is without considering shell-shock (or post-traumatic stress disorder to give it its modern name).


	12. 1993

8th Feb. 1993

I feel dreadful. Four years of trying and I lost Barrington to D. & C.. I should be elated, but can't be. He may have be a smarmy git, and less pleasant than Litton to boot, but I haven't lost anyone since Viv. Oh, sodding hell, I despised the chap. That was last week. Have barely been sober since. Not a good time.

13th February 1993

I've slunk off to Farringfield Green for a day or so. Will probably sit in the car all day tomorrow and drive down early morning on the 15th. I'm getting too old for this, Bolls.

14th February 1993

I'm definitely too old for this. Could barely move when I woke up. It's time to get a new car. Maybe another Audi. I wrote the Merc off a few years back and the force was going through a phase of having Fords again. I thought I'd join them. It feels cramped with four of us. With five and the back seat starts whining. Bunch of three year olds.

I think Barrington got taken on the promise of two things: immediate promotion back to D.I., with a good chance to become D.C.I. in short order, and the opportunity to take me down.

Damn. I need to get back to C.I.D. and make sure they're OK. Need to have a nap first: got through half a bottle of whisky since I woke at dawn - blendy, I don't drink malt like that, would be a waste of good scotch.

Head hurts, and not just because of the hangover. Left side only. Poor lad. Didn't deserve a shallow grave. Your face when you found my warrant card, when I remembered, haunts me still. I was terrified I would lose you. Again. What did you mean 'more than that...'?

Stopped for a slash - sorry, unnecessary information. You once asked me whether you were worth saving if you'd saved some lives. Of course you were; you were worth saving even if you'd tried but failed. But since I'd forgotten how the world works, I couldn't help you as I ought to have. Terribly sorry about that.

16th February 1993

Yep. Barrington and his mate, Johnny, have been poking around. Fortunately they took the wrong approach, and tried to start with the newest D.C.s. They're both still a bit starry eyed, but the trouble Johnny and Barrington ran into was that they turned to the rest of the team rather than trusting a D.C.I. from a different section, even if Barrington was with him.

Anyway, I barely needed to do anything other than physically hold up the walls. Actually, I'm not entirely sure I needed to do that. It felt as if there was someone else helping. It really was the strangest feeling. We're all a bit shaken and I've spent most of the last twenty four hours answering questions (or not answering them) and patting arms and shoulders.

I reckon most of the team will join you in The Railway Arms soon, but I doubt they'll all go together. They're not close outside of work. It's probably better that way.

3rd May 1993

Well that's that. I have another new set of faces to get used to. Transfers have been pretty smooth, so the team's never been understrength for more than a couple of days at a time.

26th November 1993

Same old, same old. Sorry. A multiple murder turned out to be a gang thing, _and_ human trafficking. Some of the names that came up were related to those whom we suspected for the murder of those four girls a few years back. We got them and all. C.I.D. doesn't usually deal with these cases - you know that. But I argued so we got seconded to help out. Working with the organised crime squad was a better experience than dealing with the Regional Crime Squad as headed up by Litton back in Manchester, but it's still a relief to be back doing what we do best. The simple life suits me.

I found out why I didn't feel on my own when holding the ceiling on back in Feb. Young plonk. She's maybe twenty-two now. She was killed on her third day on the beat, in Tilbury. 18th Feb. 1993. Woke up a P.C. at Fenchurch East the next day. Less than a week later and she's helping me keep the whole place together.

I feel bad, Bolls. I should have tried to find her sooner. I can't imagine what it was like for her to live for months without any explanation. She says it's OK, that she had too much to do fulfilling her vows to uphold the law†and see justice done, but I'm not convinced. I should have tried harder. It's not like I wasn't expecting someone like her to turn appear at some point, and my time is running out.

I only ran into her because uniform were back up for the trafficking raid. It was the weirdest thing. We were both running down the sides of this building and bang, smack into each other at the corner and land on our respective arses. I'm busy apologising, offer a hand up and she looks at me. Not a rabbit in the headlights look, but something similar: shock, and recognition, and uncertainty.

'Oh, you're...' she says

'What?' I ask.

'That man.'

'What man?'

'The D.C.I..'

I'm completely confused. 'There are a good number of D.C.I.s around, and I'm pretty sure we haven't met,' I tell her.

'No, of course not.' She kept looking at me, just the odd glance, as we finished up our parts in the operation. I just had the presence of mind to ask her name. Tracked her down once we'd finished the paperwork. Asked her why she'd recognised me, and got the strangest tale about holding the building together. I would have discounted it if it hadn't tallied exactly. I'd have her join C.I.D. tomorrow, but she said she wants to stay in uniform for a bit longer: her determination to keep others safe is impressive. I haven't met anyone so idealistic about the basics in years, if ever.

It must be almost time for me to hang up my badge and gun, Bolls. I've been doing this job for just over 40 years. Now I want to finish it properly. Jenny - Jennifer Mary Richardson - is going to have a tough time. I survived on the back of one meeting. Well there were some close calls, so I can't claim to have been completely successful. She'll be as well prepared to do this job as I can manage. One day she'll make D.C.I.. I suspect the world will have changed almost beyond recognition by then - give it about 15 years, that's my reckoning. That will bring it to when you were shot.

Funny that, that I meet Jenny almost ten years to the day after saying farewell to you. You'd basically figured it out before we went up to Bolton, hadn't you? Odd things you said at the time: you would have stayed if I'd asked. But it was better you went, Bolly. It always was too easy for someone to come between us and put you in danger. I couldn't face that.

31st December 1993

Happy New Year, Bollykecks.

Over ten years since you left. Almost twenty-one since Sam arrived. Where has my life gone?


	13. 1994

23/03/1994

Finally persuaded Jenny to join C.I.D.. I swear she's already asked more questions about how this place works than you. She'll take her job very seriously - at least at first.

13th May 1994

Jenny's first day in C.I.D. involved considerably less fuss than Annie's or yours. Sometimes I honestly don't miss Ray. No, screw that, that's unfair on him, even if he could be depended on to be crass, prejudiced and stupid. But I don't miss his misogynistic attitude - you've probably enjoyed not having to deal with mine for the past ten years, too. That's perfectly reasonable, even I would say that it's yet another of our misunderstandings.

28th July 1994

Having Jenny on the team is fun. She's smart and doesn't take any nonsense from anyone. My two D.I.s are decent company, but they lack a bit of perspective. Jenny might be young, but it feels like she's seen the world without getting jaded. Cynicism isn't her style. Everything matters and everything's important. She brings life into C.I.D.. I don't know how she does it, but her very presence seems to make the others want to do just that little bit better.

She has an unnerving ability to ask just the right question about a case. And, as I've already found out, all the awkward questions about what I'm doing here. I've told her some, I've had to. Said about Sam, including some of what you told me. The dangers of Keats and his ilk; the problems associated with the fact that most people just forget. They bury the trauma and accept the present. It's hard work, talking through it all. I'll take her up to Farringfield soon.

There's no need to get jealous, Bolly. That's my prerogative, even though I always knew you are a big girl and can look out for yourself. I don't mention you. I sometimes think Jenny's aware of the holes in the stories I tell her, but she seems to accept them. When it became clear she was going to be persistent, I did some serious thinking: did I want to share you or not? Decided I wanted one thing to myself, so I carefully edit you out. Haven't given anyone else the credit for what you did though. I wouldn't do that; just let there be some points without explanation.

The difference between five and four is barely significant when it comes to cases, and I think she understands that there's someone missing in the stories. I wouldn't be surprised if she figures out your presence anyway.

1st September 1994

Not much excitement. The IRA ceasefire makes me think I could go, but something Barrington once said makes me feel I should stay just a little longer.

1st November 1994

I went up to Farringfield Green with Jenny yesterday.

We went to where Jenny's body was buried today. Out beyond Tilbury.

All Souls' Day, Bolly. Seemed fitting.

2nd November 1994

Two days off and, even with two fairly competent D.I.s, I come back to a complete shambles.

Makes me wonder whether I make any difference. They're the ones for whom doing things 'by the book' is so important. Could they possibly just do that properly?

25th December 1994

The Super has been murmuring about promoting me upstairs and suggesting that I should start thinking about retirement. Not quite yet. I didn't say that. Give me some credit for a fraction more tact and diplomacy. At least the Masons aren't running the show, so there's no real threat of pensioning me off to rot in Margate or some other dump because I refuse to play the rôle of a mindless foot soldier.

My time is almost up. They'll force me out when I reach 65 anyway. I guess I'd better start getting used to the idea.


	14. 1995

16th March 1995

Just not quite yet. There's too much to do. Drugs are a real problem. Dead junkies: what a waste of time. It's a waste of our time, dealing with them. But I can't help thinking of all those lives never lived. And the gangs that run the dealing and importing. The selfishness of it all. I wonder whether they think about it when they light their first spliff or take their first tablet.

I never even considered them myself. I've seen enough addicts and others tripping or dead to make the proposition entirely unattractive. Booze and fags are my poisons - and barely those, nowadays.

April 26th 1995

It's a never-ending battle. Drugs. Every dead junkie, another gone the same way as my brother. I've recently had a couple of coppers who have been back to find out what happened to their son or daughter.

The worst of both worlds: a child dead in the past and the present. I feel powerless. There's nothing I can do and little more that I can say. Jenny's better at this sort of thing than me, but even I am learning to reach for the kettle. I sometimes manage to avoid a fist in the face, which is certainly a good thing.

23rd October 1995

I've had a series of D.C.s come through on secondment this past year. A mixed bunch, but all straightforward enough. It makes me think of when we took down Harry Woolf: Annie had just joined the team, and we had a young, black lad, Fletcher I think his name was. Ray put me to shame, but I was proud of Chris. Taking the lad for himself. Pity he had to get tangled up in taking down Harry, but I guess it's just as well that he wasn't around for more than the one case and I didn't have to try to beat manners into and prejudice out of Ray. He'd probably have ended up sticking a bullet in my guts.

It's a wonderful world, sometimes. When different backgrounds can all work and hang out together. It's happening, but slowly. Barrington wasn't just obnoxious to Carol and the W.D.C.. Took exception to my D.S. too, a coloured lad, diligent and a bit self-effacing. He was popular with everyone, Barrington excepted. I lost Barrington a few weeks after Elijah joined us. It might have been the tipping point on the rest closing ranks.

I didn't have the words to write about it before, but I've just said goodbye to Elijah. I think he'll get on with Chris, Sam too.

29th December 1995

Another year almost gone, Bolly. I need to start thinking ahead, but it's been too busy.


	15. 1996

2nd January 1996

I went down to Eastbourne yesterday - fancied some air and a change of scene. Whose stupid idea was it to walk up to the top of Beachy Head? Got involved with talking a young man out of committing suicide. Ruddy things. His kid sister had vanished back in July and the police hadn't made any progress. Guess where the case is?

Fenchurch West.

Just what I need: a moral obligation and a stale case.

I'm sick of people dying on me, Bolly. That's what I told him. I'm surprised he listened to an old man. I got him a cuppa after, reckoned he needed something to warm him up and steady his nerves. Me too, to be honest.

I was needed and I was there, Bolly. It's still not my time.

I drove him back up to London. Didn't say anything to his mam - well, apart from that it had been a bit of a rough day for him and that he missed his sister. We'd agreed this on the way back. He's got the station number; my direct line too. I guess he'll be in touch from time to time. I hope so.

10th January 1996

Getting the files over from Fenchurch West took far too long. Now the new D.I. is asking why we're bothering. I told him to think about a mother who's lost her daughter, and a brother who's lost his kid sister. Five years ago I would probably have thrown him across the room. Fifteen years ago I definitely would have. Today I barely raised my voice.

Scary that, how much I've changed.

You made me better, Bolls. I'm trying to be the man you once told me I was - the kind one, not the obnoxious one. Thank you, Bolly.

13th January 1996

I thought we'd dealt with the corruption there back in '82. I guess we didn't weed it all out, even with the additional ruckus raised in '84. But what do I know? I'm just an overgrown kid.

10th Feb. 1996

All hell broke lose yesterday. I'm still needed here. Murderers and all just love it when something big happens and distracts us.

15th Feb. 1996

Docklands is a mess. It took me right back to Manchester of fifty years ago, before they'd been able to clear up and rebuild after the war. Will it never end?

21st March 1996

Bent coppers love mayhem too. Means there's less scrutiny. It's getting better, but the creepy, weirdo, funny handshake brigade still dominates parts of the upper echelons. They surface now and again to threaten to hang me out to dry.

I've told you before. Don't watch me work, it still isn't that pretty.

2nd May 1996

There was a corporal when I was in the army who was an expert at this sort of thing: setting up senior officers without getting caught. I never thought that forty-five years later, I'd be applying what he used to do, but in all seriousness. He only did it for pranks: made the officers look a bit stupid, but nothing that would get them into serious trouble. The officers themselves usually eventually figured out that they'd been set up and passed some appropriate punishment onto the corporal. He never set someone up without some sort of justification, or for his own benefit - a prank for an injustice or piece of stupidity. He looked out for his squad, and more beside. Taught sharp lessons without malice. I think we all learnt from him and became better people because of it.

So far, including Harry Woolf in Manchester, Supermac and Carnegie, I've now taken down eight fellow D.C.I.s and five superintendents. Remarkably, I don't seem to be receiving the cold-shoulder from anyone, and that's with keeping as far away from the Lodge as I possibly can.

I've at most three more years, I hope they let me finish.

16th June 1996

Now Manchester looks like what I remember from 50 years ago - as much as a grainy coloured TV picture and the memory of a 12 year old can match.

Why did I ever leave home? I love Manchester: filthy, stinky, scum-riddled city that it is. No one gave a toss then, not one gives a toss now. And I've abandoned it too, run away to London where the scum's the same, and nameless, faceless victims deemed even less worth. The image of a safe, secure city is valued, so we get more to work with but it's nearly all on the surface. The powers that want to see results - and I reap the cushy benefits whether or not I address the root of the problem or merely the top layer.

7th July 1996

I went up to Manchester yesterday. Just got back. They've tidied up some but it's still raw.

Farringfield Green is as abandoned as every. A few fewer tiles on the roof, but the scarecrow's still guarding my remains. What a disturbing thought, not something to dwell on.

2nd August

The brass upstairs have been poking their noses around. Want to present us as a model department for politicians to come and inspect. 'Meet the coppers' and all that.

Organ grinder, monkey. Which am I?

17th Nov. 1996

That's better. No more politicians poking their noses into others' people's business and telling us how to do our jobs.

I'm definitely getting too old for this. Maybe Nelson knows something.

23rd November 1996

I saw Nelson - I always see him - when I took D.S. Silver to The Railway Arms last night. This time he spoke, usually he just smiles in welcome. I asked him how much longer until I would do more than say farewell on the doorstep. You probably know what he's like by now, and you had Sam's account anyway.

"Soon, mon brave, soon." That's all he said.

I'm tired, Bolly, dog-tired. But you know me, stubborn old bastard that I am. Giving up is not my style.

13th December 1996

Be a little proud of me, Bolly. I arrested a guy and managed to get through the entire warning without help. I might have got a few words wrong, but the meaning was there. I did conclude by telling him he was nicked, just in case he hadn't got the message.

Arrests used to be so much simpler.

I'm clean, Bolly. My past isn't, but here, now, I'm as squeaky-clean as I've been since before I took my first backhander. 

I'm far from perfect, I know that. I still go after scum on impulse. Gut instinct still counts for a lot with me. I've just about learnt to stop before I get out the door. Guts don't let me down often, not completely. There's more of them now, Bolls. It would look ridiculous if you and I sat down for dinner as we have done once or twice.

That way lies madness, Bolls. Not that it was ever any different. I've given up trying to figure out what you ever saw in me. You being admired is as it should be: beautiful, ballsy and brainy. What hope did I have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, D.S. Silver is Mel Silver from Waking the Dead - died 2004 (thrown to her death and landed on her D.C.I.'s car windscreen). Incidentally, while I haven't watched any of Waking the Dead for years, what might be termed 'the shouty Gene Hunt' is strongly influenced by D.C.I. Peter Boyd who heads up the cold case unit, who is another copper with a temper and anger management problems.


	16. 1997

27th March 1997

It's been a busy start to the year, but things have calmed down this last week. Nothing much out of the ordinary, though, just a lot of it.

4th April 1997

Bolly, Bolls. Molly, Molls. I've been listening to your tapes again. I'm a right idiot, stupider than Ray or Chris ever were. 14 years of listening to your tapes and I've only just realised that the name I gave you - Bollinger Knickers - meant I mirrored exactly how you called your daughter. Not my fault that you turned up looking like the classiest prostitute I'd see all year. You were a sight for sore eyes; drop dead gorgeous doesn't even come close.

4th May 1997

I know when I started I said this would be an account of what was going on. Turns out it's more a collection of random jottings made when I can be bothered to write. Or when I have the time.

Didn't get much sleep last night because I was reading through this.

Criminals don't take holidays, therefore policemen and women can't either.

I guess you knew that already.

26th August 1997

Ceasefire again. Apparently this is the one that lasts - at least as far as London's concerned. It's a relief if it is.

31st August 1997

Pont de l'Alma. Those photos that appeared mysteriously on my desk way back in '82. Fifteen years later and I can see why that place might be deemed significant to anyone who had been alive today. The media never did have much respect, but they have got worse and worse. Being under constant scrutiny makes policing hard enough, but at least we have our private lives.

How much was a by-product of her own self-aggrandisement? Am I even allowed to ask that?

6th Sept. 1997

The media circus continues. At least the funeral wasn't at Westminster, I'd probably have offended some stuck up earl or one of your acquaintances with a double-barrelled name.

15th September 1997

I sat down with the Super today. What a way to start a week, finding out that your days are numbered. It's not exactly news; they have been muttering about it for most of the last decade. I'm honestly a little surprised I lasted this long with out a serious fight. I think I told you, way back in 1981, that they were sharpening the axe for coppers me. But I had some good teachers.

I'll have a chat with Jenny soon. See whether she has any thoughts. The Super wants a date by the end of the month.

3rd October 1997

I finally managed to sit down with Jenny today. She's pragmatic is Jenny. Just pulled up the calendar on the computer and flicked it back to 1953.

Do you know what she showed me?

2nd June 1953 was a Tuesday.

Next year, the second of June is also on a Tuesday. Twenty years ago, even fifteen, I would have kissed her.

Today I didn't even come close. Haven't really wanted to kiss a bird since you left. I've kissed a few, though - mostly when they've kissed me: I'm not going to stand there like a lemon.

Damn. I try not to think about that too much. Not exactly good for the Gene Genie's image. Stop laughing, Bolls, it's not funny.

No decisions to make, Bolly. It's a bit of a relief, if I'm honest. Phoned the Super to get preliminary approval: I think he would have preferred it if I'd said Christmas, but I pointed out that it would make a full 45 years and he didn't argue. Now I've just got to submit the paperwork.

31st December 1997

Do you remember the photo Luigi took of us all one evening? It's the only one I have of you. Since I wasn't likely to forget you in a hurry, photographs weren't that important, and a poor shadow of the real thing. But I'm glad I have one, if only to remind me how alive you were.

I can't think too far ahead, Bolls not even now. I've still a job to do, if only for a few more months.

_[A old photograph from 1981-2, the corners frayed from much handling. The team all happy, even Gene smiling.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there... things start to drop into place.


	17. 1998

4th January 1998

I dug up another photo of you yesterday - I think it was one of Shaz's. From after... Well. Sorry. I only ever wanted to keep you safe... Sorry, again. I need to stop apologising. You forgave me at the time, I know. I guess I haven't forgiven myself yet. What am I doing, Bolly? You won't look at me when I finally walk through the pub doors with Nelson. I know you won't. And that's fine.

I've not done badly, all told, have I Bolls?

23rd March 1998

I'm starting to tidy up and clean things out. Slowly. Just the odd minute snatched here and there.

I wonder what it will be like to see everyone again. At least I assume that's how it works: walk into the pub and every police officer who has walked through that door before you could be there. It'll be a mighty let down if you're not there. What's the point of a boozer if there's no one there drinking?

10th April 1998

This is it, Bolls. Good Friday 1998. Northern Ireland agreement is signed.

I've lent Jenny one of your tapes. You're the only one who recorded anything. I'll probably leave it with her. The rest I'll burn. But not just now.

I'm keeping my warrant cards and epaulette number. Should probably take Jenny out to Tilbury to get hers before she walks me to the pub. It'll be nice to see the inside of my boozer again.

I once said I wished I'd never remembered. Now I'm gad I did. Couldn't have done it without you, Bolly.

19th May 1998

Two weeks, Bolly. Got a murder-kidnapping to deal with.

26th May 1998

It doesn't stop round here, not even for my last week.

30th May 1998

What am I doing? I've burnt all but two of your tapes. I've got one, Jenny has the other.

31st May 1998

I'm scared, Bolly. A call came in at 6 a.m. this morning. A dead body left by the tide. Twelve hours later and we don't know much more. 

Should I stay? Help them sort it out?

But they do know what they're doing. I'll be sleeping in my chair tonight - what's left of it. I hope I'm not too grumpy when I finally reach the pub.

2nd June 1998

Today's the day, Bolly. Guess I'll be heading over earlier than planned since I won't be going out with the team. There's too much at stake. Who invented the ungodly hour of five a.m.? Or the concept of functioning on a handful of hours' sleep?

0600 - My office is all packed away, Gary Cooper has stood down. The team or my replacement can deal with the boxes once everything has quietened down.

1200 - Heading home to check on everything and change. Thank goodness I sorted most things on Saturday.

1400 - Took a bit longer than I'd hoped, but everything sorted. Got a few odd looks when I got back, but it's too late to worry about what anyone thinks. I guess it's not exactly an unreasonable reaction to an old D.C.I. turning up in a penguin suit for his last few hours, when the pub won't be an option. Jenny understands though.

1700 - I'm bloody terrified, Bolly. I've taken so many coppers to The Railway Arms, but I have no idea what to expect. Will you all still be there? Will you remember me the way I remember you?

I never said it. I did my damnedest not to show it. I tried to not even admit it to myself. This is it, Bolly. I don't know when I first knew, and I don't know when it started. Sometime around the first time you punched me in the jaw, perhaps?

That's it. 1800, time for me to head to the boozer.

_Gene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And he _still_ can't say it! Actually, I don't know whether he ever will, or whether it just becomes something that is understood.
> 
> Anyway, full circle to 'Coming to Terms' where Gene gives Alex the notebook.


	18. Damn you

Alex closed the notebook carefully and held it in her hands. She didn't know what to think, there was so much to take in, even if, between conversations with the officers themselves and that with Gene that morning, the contents themselves were largely unsurprising.

"Damn you, Gene Hunt," she murmured.

He just couldn't do it, could he? Not make grand gestures and statements. And the thing was that he didn't even see them as grand. For him they were just everyday things, just as he had never set out to do heroic deeds or seek adulation, approval or recognition for what he did. Even this diary had held no purpose beyond that of a record. He hadn't set out for it to be anything else, and probably barely recognised that it was more.

She made herself another mug of tea and returned to her seat, the diary in her lap.

A while later, she heard familiar voices on the stairs outside.

"It's open," she called out in reply to the knock.

She was slightly surprised when Sam and Annie didn't come in with Gene. He stood awkwardly in the doorway from the hall.

"You read it then," he said, when she looked up at him.

"Yes. Thank you." Alex smiled, laying the notebook carefully on the arm of the sofa, but the tension still remained.

"Did it as much for me as for you, Bolly." Gene slowly took a seat at the other end of the sofa.

Alex eventually placed her mug on the coffee table and turned to face Gene. "Give me your hand," she said holding out one of hers. Gene complied, bemused, but willing to let Alex have her way. She studied his for a long moment before looking up shyly. "It wasn't easy, was it?" she asked softly. "Us, working together. No matter what happened, we struggled to trust each other. I kept messing up." She shook her head slightly, and Gene decided it was definitely one of those times when letting Alex ramble on was best, even if he had plenty to say about everything she'd just said. Not that he minded, despite his complaints about 'Radio Drakey', he could listen to Alex for hours, her voice in person richer than on her tapes, the happy calmness quite different to the fraught questioning or lost confusion he'd become used to. "We always came through, though."

"Too close for comfort sometimes, Bolly. I'm sorry I shot you," he said.

"I'm not sure I am," Alex said softly, "not now." She continued slowly: "I don't think I would have known one thing if you hadn't."

Gene raised an questioning eyebrow.

"That I love you," Alex said simply, meeting Gene's gaze.

Gene gulped and looked away. He was completely flummoxed. "I..." he stammered eventually.

"Don't need to say anything," Alex cut him off, expression stern. He nodded slightly, accepting her decision. Alex sighed softly, letting the action remove some of the tension from her shoulders. "It's OK, you know. I just needed to tell you so you knew. One day, maybe, you'll say the same to me. If you do, I want it to be because you want to say it, because you understand what is meant - and mean it."

"You've lost me there, Bolls."

"No pressure, no expectations, Gene. You're most comfortable expressing your emotions in anger, even if love is a promise. It's about knowledge and acceptance; understanding and respect."

"And a good amount of attraction too," Gene cut in.

"Yes, desire does play a not insignificant part, but it's as poor a foundation for a relationship as habit. I will not ask you to change. I fell in love with the man I knew: the good and the bad." Gene didn't know what to say or how to respond, and they lapsed into silence, sneaking the occasional sideways glance at each other. "You do realise you spent fifteen years writing me a love letter?" Alex asked after another long tense silence.

Gene's shocked look made her laugh and he huffed, not entirely displeased, but off-balance: this added a whole new layer of complications to an already fraught relationship, and he wasn't ready for that, nor, he suspected, was Alex. She was right, of course, not that he'd recognised what he'd done until she'd told him. At the time it had been a mixture of ranting and whining; imagined half conversations with someone he hoped would understand. The last entries were different, more direct, but he'd seen them as distinct from the rest. He stood and tugged on Alex's hand, encouraging her to stand too.

"Come here, Bolly," he said, gruffly, drawing Alex close to him, and sighing contentedly when she rested comfortably against him. It was easy, holding Alex close. It reminded him of when they'd danced in her flat: he'd been on a promise, but, despite his objections, holding Alex as they swayed to some meaningless music hadn't been bad. In retrospect, it had been the highlight of a pretty shitty night. He felt himself starting to forgive himself.

He allowed them a few minutes of pretending there weren't implications and repercussions of what Alex had just stated before he cleared his throat. "You know this just complicates matters?" he asked eventually. Alex nodded against his shoulder, and he sighed.

"Things can't change just like that," Alex agreed. "We each have too much baggage. And time's made us almost strangers." Her voice was soft and reflective, and Gene wished he could kiss away the sadness in her tone.

"Yeah," he said instead. He glanced up at the clock on Alex's mantle. It was quarter to seven. "I'm not going to deny that the very thought of some of the necessary conversations have me quaking in my boots, but, fortunately for me, none of those conversations are going to happen now." He loosened his hold and patted Alex's shoulder a little awkwardly. "Go sort yourself out, Bolly, it's about time we left for Sam and Annie's."

Alex straightened up and raised a hand to Gene's cheek briefly. "We'll be OK," she said, "I promise." She wished there was some way that she could remove the worry that betrayed itself in Gene's expression, but knew that there wasn't.

"Get on with you," Gene told her gruffly, smiling slightly. Things were far from perfect, and he suspected they wouldn't return to the topic of Alex's declaration or the implications of his diary for a long while, but they were, at long last, once again on the same page. If his diary keeping had no other effect, he was glad that he'd kept it and given it to Alex.


	19. Avoidance

Gene had walked Alex to her flat after their meal with Sam and Annie, and he now prowled around Alex's lounge as she rattled around in the kitchen looking for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He'd never really bought in to the psychologist's belief of being able to tell a lot about a person from their belongings, although with the increasing frequency with which psychological profilers had turned up on his team, he could parrot a good amount of their mumbo-jumbo. He was more interested to find out what Alex was interested in: the books and tapes she collected for herself; the trinkets and ornaments she let others see.

"My last few days at Fenchurch East did not leave much time for explanations," Alex said, handing Gene a glass of red wine and placing the bottle on the coffee table.

"Mostly due to Jimbo Keats," Gene managed to not snarl - just. Alex merely sighed, settling herself at one end of the couch and gesturing for Gene to sit at the other. 

"Yeah," Alex agreed sadly once Gene had propped his feet up on the coffee table. "It was mostly Keats, and his deplorable timing, but I was also determined to find answers you didn't want me to have. And, as I said at the fundraising gala, shortly before you shot Bevan, answering one small question honestly was the condition for gaining my trust." Gene didn't know what to say to that so he elected to remain silent, taking a sip of his wine as he waited for Alex to continue. "I wanted to trust you, you know," Alex said, "through everything - your evasions, your temper, your blatant disregard for the law you were there to uphold. That night at Luigi's, when you told me the truth, that meant the world to me."

"And yet you still went dashing off up to Lancashire." Gene turned his head to meet her gaze and quirked his lips slightly in a wry smile, hoping Alex wouldn't take the statement as an accusation.

"What can I say?" Alex asked, pleased when Gene relaxed at her teasing tone. "You'd never mentioned the place, and I trusted you more than Keats - you didn't pretend to be something you weren't: kindness can hide more evil than harshness - so by that point it seemed unlikely to have anything to do with Sam, but it was a part of another mystery. I thought they were connected."

"How do you mean?" Gene asked, curious.

"Those last few months, after you brought me out of my coma, I would sometimes see myself in my hospital room. In 2008. I was in a coma there too, you know. Arthur Layton had shot me in the head. In the hulk of The Lady Di. That morning - the day I died, not the day I was shot - at nine-oh-six am, the news headline was of a body, perhaps of a police officer, found two days earlier in rural Lancashire. One of the pictures that Keats gave me that night was of the same building as in the news report - the weather vane was unmistakable."

"Slow down, woman," Gene grumbled, leaning forwards to pour himself some more wine and topping up Alex's glass too. "I may have had fifteen years to get my head around what I was doing for almost three times as long, but I never did manage to piece your story together. I tried sometimes," he continued in response to Alex's disbelieving stare. "I listened to your tapes, over and over, but I still didn't know enough; there were too many connections that I couldn't make - the news report, Layton, The Lady Di - they're another three missing pieces."

"And that my maiden name was Price," Alex added, watching with satisfaction as Gene made the connection and realised who the little girl he'd carried into the police station on the tenth of October 1981 had grown up to become.

"You know, Bolly," he said eventually, "you may make a hell of a lot more sense in retrospect than you did at the time, but there are some things that still seem to defy explanation." He didn't say it, but Alex's reaction to the robbery at the Drakes', and her rant about the young lad, Peter, were events that he had thought over often enough while brooding over his drink and watching the rest of CID merrily get wasted. He'd put those pieces together, but hadn't thought to keep an eye out for the younger Alex Drake. Given what he'd known of her daughter, he supposed he might have tried, but a policeman's work was never done and it was not important enough to warrant special attention: he wouldn't have been able to change the future; recognising Alex's and Sam's attempts to do so had taught him that much.

"I was afraid I was going mad," Alex admitted, looking at the glass in her hands.

"I think you had us all convinced you were a complete fruitcake," Gene clarified.

"Anyway," Alex started, and Gene could see she was about to launch into a long, detailed explanation that would probably assume he remembered the vast majority of the many odd things she'd said and done in the two and a bit years they'd worked together.

"I said, slow down," Gene interrupted before she could even start. "In fact, just stop. We've plenty of time for you to explain how our lives - and quite possibly deaths - seem to have dovetailed, but you've already given me a good lot to chew over, and I'd like to digest that before you go into exhaustive detail. Not that I can say that I'm much interested in even doing that at the moment."

"No?"

"No, Alex, I'm dog-tired for one, and would quite like to stop thinking for a few hours. You're there, for another, which is close enough for now. The wine's considerably better than any I have drunk for a while, and this couch is far more comfortable than your last one."

"So you're planning on staying put?" Alex asked.

"If you don't mind."

"I doubt it would make any difference even if I were to object, so by all means, make yourself at home," Alex said, softening the statement by handing Gene the nearly empty wine bottle.

"Already am." Gene said drowsily, placing the bottle on the floor rather than replenishing his glass.

Alex watched him - this seemingly slightly younger, yet less abrasive, Gene - for a few minutes until his breathing slowed and she was sure that if he wasn't asleep, he was close. She stood slowly and carefully removed the wineglass from his fingers, taking it with the discarded bottle and her glass into the kitchen. Padding softly through the flat, she collected a blanket and spread it over Gene's sleeping form, giving in to the temptation to brush his hair back from his face and place a soft kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well," she whispered.

A sleepy murmur of "Bolly," caught her just as she reached the door to her bedroom.

"What is it?"

"Just... don't leave me?" Alex wasn't sure whether Gene was asleep or not, but the degree of uncertainty in his voice was something she'd never heard before: not even his 'Will we, Bolls?' the last time they'd been sat in her flat above Luigi's had come close.

"I won't," she whispered, tiptoeing around her room and changing into more comfortable clothes before collecting her duvet and a pillow and returning to the couch.

She shook her head at herself, sure a sore neck and back would make her regret her actions in the morning, before she settled herself on the couch next to Gene.

"C'm 'ere, Bolls," Gene murmured, getting as far towards lifting his arm as moving his elbow a few inches.

So he was awake, if only just. Alex sighed, but complied, shuffling along the couch until she could use his shoulder as a pillow. Without opening his eyes properly, Gene gave the duvet an efficient tug so it covered them both.

"Night, Bolls," he said and she really had no choice but to murmur a "goodnight, Gene" in reply and close her eyes.


End file.
